October has seldom been a good month for me. Apart from being too close to my birthday, the tenth month in this area enjoys/is tortured by truly wonky weather: it's basically May with fewer tornadoes. And for some reason, the world seems to be going out of its way to piss me off, like the whole damned solar system has gone retrograde or something. And today it started early, when I backed neatly out of the garage, guessed wrong as to the position of my right foot, and did a nice little 270-degree loop. In reverse. There was no traffic and presumably no audience, but this is not an auspicious beginning. I wasn't expecting one — I'd awakened at 4 am and grabbed only brief moments of slumber for the next two hours — but I've seen that before.

I probably should have forgotten the idea of a grocery run today. At 4:48 pm, the usual "Your order is ready" text message came in; I arrived on the premised at 4:54. All ten slots were full, which isn't that unusual; none of the slots seemed to be empyting, which is. I pulled off to the side to wait; meanwhile, people with more enthusiasm than I for this sort of thing queued up in exactly the way you would if your Prime Directive called for making sure I can't move. Once a hole opened, I slid into it; it was right behind a BMW M-something. At least, I mused, he'll move quickly once a space opens up.

Came a space. Bimmer does not move. Okay, maybe he's a lazy son of a bitch and doesn't want to go all the way to the end of the row. Came another space. Bimmer does not move. I drove around him as slowly as was humanly possible and decided to see what else was going on. It was now past five-thirty, and the rain had started. By the time I got back — call it ten minutes — Bimmer is conversing with a staffer. A staffer with someone's grocery order. Might have been his, or it might not. I went back to the end of the line. It was 6:15 before I got a space (#8 of 10) in the pickup area; it was another half-hour before a surly fellow of Asian extraction, presumably not pleased with having to be out in the rain, wheeled out my stuff. I pulled into the driveway at 6:59, the absolute limit of bladder capacity. Of course, it took two minutes to get out of the car and into the house. And somewhere along the way I lost $2 in change, a result of the contortions I have to go through just to get out of the car. I presume it's under the driver's seat somewhere.

The answering machine was close to maxed out; the last caller to be heard from was an antiquated-sounding person from the office of that mysterious cardiac specialist I'm supposed to see later this week. And she said this twice: "Please bring all medications."

What? Are you out of your pill-pushing mind? Do you seriously think I'm going to lug thirteen bottles, ranging from rather small to not small at all, halfway across town. Not happening. Especially since two of said meds are on Schedule II, for which, no thanks to some ill-conceived legislation, I now have to get new scripts every month. In person. I can rattle off every pill name and every dosage without having to schlep all these bottles around. Surely that should be sufficient.

But let's suppose it isn't. Let's imagine that something horrible is going to happen at this guy's office, and without those meds, I'm doomed. You know what? If I'm going to die from whatever the hell procedure is going to be happening, then God damn it, let me die. At least I won't have any more shitty days of October.

The Vent

#1080
  8 October 2018

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